Ghosts
by Cellino
Summary: in which laine gets off her lazy arse and posts the fanfic, which is now complete.
1. [0/8] — SMUT — in which we meet some non...

GHOSTS  
viii  
Smut  
  
***  
  
Um, hi. Welcome to "Ghosts." My name's Michael, and I'll be your tourguide 'cuz Laine's busy writing more "dodgy fanfiction," as she puts it.  
So, yeah, this is "Ghosts," a work in progress by Laine Angela Maxwell aka Hesperos. It's a Harry Potter fic, but the title character probably won't be showing up too much 'cuz Laine's depraved and is writing Ron/Draco, which I would bitch about and declare wrong, but then she'd go off and start writing hetfic about Setsuna and Sara from Angel Sanc, which she has threatened to do, and that would be scary.  
That was a really fucking long sentance.  
Anyway. This is "Ghosts." All the pieces can be read together or not, up to you, but it's reccomended that you read them in order (or as much as you can, what with Laine switching them around all the time), since there are a few chronology-dependant things (ie, it doesn't make sense to be fucking before you've met.)  
Important-ish details:  
This begins a few months into seventh year.  
All characters © J.K. Rowling, except Davis, who so far appears only briefly in parts II and III, and he's not really even there. Davis technically is a Digimon character, but not really, because he's actually a certain Atalanta de Lioncourt. Don't ask.  
The title comes from a quote Laine found in her Chandler's, from Frances de La Rochefoucauld, whom I have never heard of, but he must be pretty famous if he's in Chandler's. Anyway, the quote is as follows:  
It is with true love as it is with ghosts,  
everyone talks of it but few have ever seen it.  
Laine found this really sweet, except when taken in the context of Harry Potter, where it's actually pretty damn funny 'cuz there are ghosts all over.  
Okay. I guess that's it.  
If you have any questions, e-mail Laine and either she or I will get back to you. Probably me; she's lazy.  
See y'all.  
  
-Mike  
  
PS: Laine's a Dean/Seamus person, too, so yes, Harry is the only straight guy in his dorm. Poor guy; I know how he feels...  
  
Laine: bullshit.  
  
Hey! What's *that* supposed to mean?! And go away. Go write dirty fanfics or something.  
  
Laine: this guy is the -biggest- closet case ... ever. really.  
  
Dammit, Laine, go *away*!  
  
Laine: ::giggles; skips merrily away::  
  
***  
  
  
ps: reading this over, i've forgotten neville ~.~;; which is terribly embarassing, but i'm not going back now to  
write him in. 


	2. [1/8] — QUEER — in which the story is ab...

GHOSTS  
I  
Queer  
  
***  
  
Special.  
That was all it boiled down to.  
That was all anything ever meant, in the end.  
He wasn't asking for perfection.  
He wasn't even asking for fame.  
But to just once in his life step out from the shadows...  
All Ron Weasley ever wanted was to be special.  
  
***  
  
"Oh hi Ron, sorry, I hadn't noticed you." And it had been -Hermione-. Not that he needed her to notice him, or cared that she just short of draped herself over Harry, it was just that one of his best friend's failure to notice him stung.  
When Malfoy said it — "People only notice you because you're Potter's friend; you're no one, Weasley, -no-one-." — he hadn't cared, because itwas Malfoy, and Malfoy was a prick and nothing he said had any worth. But when Hermione proved him right — that hurt.  
Of course, he wasn't -in- their Advanced Arithmancy class, so when Harry caught up to Hermione in the halls to ask about last night's assignment, he hadn't had much to say.  
But even still....  
  
***  
  
And this summer. Mum hardly approved of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but she was still quite proud of Fred and George. Not that Ron wasn't proud of them too, or looking forward to the job they promised — and meant, this time — after he graduated Hogwartss this year, just that he wondered why they couldn't have paid a little more attention to -him-.  
After all, he thought bitterly, it's not every day you have a third son to become Head Boy.  
So they were proud. Damn proud.  
But ... it had been done before.  
  
***  
  
"You want -what-?"  
"In the owlery, tonight at eight. Be there." With that, Malfoy turned and walked — swished, nearly — away, nose in the air, giving no indication the conversation had even taken place.  
Of course, "I want to talk to you" wasn't much of a conversation, but then, he doubted Malfoy was much of a conversationalist.  
  
***  
  
Seven-thirty. From the looks Malfoy had been giving him all day, combined with the seemingly innocuous comments from the past month, suddenly looked at in a new light, he had a pretty good idea why Malfoy wanted to talk to him.  
He weighed his options.  
Bill was off working for Gringotts.  
Charlie lived with dragons.  
Percy was quickly making his way up the ladder of success in the Ministy of Magic.  
The twins owned the largest, most successful mail-order joke company in the wizarding world.  
Ginny was the only girl in the family, a bloody genius and had half the boys in school after her.  
There was only one thing left for him to do, really.  
  
***  
  
"So what's this about, Malfoy?"  
Their eyes locked, and Ron walked forward, closing the distance between them.  
"Are you queer?"  
"I think you know the answer to that." He pressed his lips against Malfoy's, and melted into the embrace.  
  
*** 


	3. [2/8] — BUTTERFLIES — in which Malfoy is...

GHOSTS  
II  
Butterflies  
  
***  
  
He still wasn't sure why he was doing this, if it was the red hair, the reckless grin, or the fierce devotion, the bravery, or maybe just some sort of sixth sense that told him Ron would be a good lay.  
Because he didn't want -romance-.  
How could he?  
He was a Malfoy; Malfoys didn't fall in love with people like the Weasleys.  
Malfoys didn't fall in love.  
  
***  
  
And those weren't butterflies.  
He was -Draco-Malfoy-; he didn't -get- nervous; he certainly did not get butterflies in his stomach. If anything, he was perhaps a bit queasy at the prospect of sleeping with Ron. He was hardly a virgin, but he had never slept with another boy before, and he was perhaps a bit nervous on that account. And perhaps a bit concerned as to what would happen if his father found out.  
Fuck that, he was -terrified- of what would happen if his father found out.  
He laughed bitterly. If his father didn't kill him, maybe he could go live with the Weasleys.  
  
***  
  
Not for the first time, he was grateful for the luxuries being a rich, egotistical bastard — or at least a rich, egotistical bastard's son — afforded him.  
Having a private room was one of them, and being able to boss people around was another, and having people scared to question -why- you were bringing a second-year Ravenclaw up to your room was most definitely a plus.  
Upon reaching said room, said second-year Ravenclaw burst into laughter. Draco regarded him evenly, a slight smirk playing across his lips.  
"What -is- so funny, Ronald?"  
"Well ... it just occured to me..." he ran his fingers through his brown hair, which was quickly brightening back to its original red, "this will probably get around, and poor Davis will have to fend off questions of '-where- were you going with Draco Malfoy?' Poor boy."  
Draco shrugged. "He'll deny everything, since after all he -didn't- go anywhere with me, and I'll deny everything, and soon it'll all blow over." He frowned. "And why the bloody hell are you still clothed?"  
Ron, now back to normal, grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."  
  
***  
  
It wasn't awkward at all. It was perfect, nothing had ever felt so -natural-, so -right-.  
"We'll have to do this again sometime," he whispered, and Ron murmured some happy concent and curled up to Draco's chest, tired, animosity forgotten in the afterglow.  
Draco played with his new lover's hair, idly wondering how someone so irritating out of bed could be so amazing in bed. Because it -had- been fabulous; he only had one regret.  
Years of discipline had won out even over primal instinct, and the whole time, he hadn't made a single sound....  
  
***  
  
A/N: in case it wasn't obvious: yay for polyjuice potion ^_^ 


	4. [3/8] — CONFESSION — in which we learn t...

GHOSTS  
III  
Confession  
  
***  
  
It was stange, now. It was strange to yell at him; hit him even, or act like he wanted to, when all he wanted was to take Draco in his arms and just hold him.  
Which isn't to say his that his feelings had totally changed. He still thought Malfoy was a prick; still couldn't take an insult; still wanted to rip him to shreds, sometimes. But it was ... different, now. Strange. He wasn't just Malfoy, that asshole, he was Malfoy, that asshole I slept with last night.  
Very strange.  
  
***  
  
He had briefly considered telling Harry. He told Harry everything, and as far as he knew, Harry did the same, and it didn't feel right to be keeping a secret from him ... especially something like this.  
But how -could- he?  
Hey Harry, you know that guy you really hate, the one who's been making our lives miserable for seven years, your arch-rival, the one who's probably involved in a conspiracy to kill you? I slept with him last night.  
There was no way...  
  
***  
  
"Um, Harry?"  
"Yeah?"  
"I need to talk to you." He knew all of Harry's facial expressions by now, knew that now-you-have-me-worried look he was getting. "Don't worry," he said hurridly, "it's not a a big deal. Well. It sort of is. Just ... just hear me out, okay?"  
Harry nodded, still looking concerned  
"There's ... there's something I realized about myself ... over the summer ... and I didn't have the guts to say anything until now." He took a deep breath, and then rushed through before Harry could say anything. "HarryI'mgay."  
"You're ... you're what?" The words came out slow and stunned.  
"I'm gay, Harry. Homosexual. A fag, a fairy, a poof. I like boys." And I'm sleeping with Draco Malfoy, he added mentally.  
"...oh."  
"Harry? You don't ... you don't hate me now, do you?"  
"No. I don't hate you. I'm just ... surprised. This, er ... this doesn't ... I mean, you don't ... I mean, you're not telling me this because you fancy -me-, are you?"  
Ron stared at him, then grimaced slightly, then burst out laughing. "Oh God, Harry, no! You're my best friend; it'd be like fancying -Percy-!"  
At that, Harry started laughing, too, and Ron sighed with relief.  
"Well, you took that better than I'd feared you would." Of course, you only know half the story... "Er, d'you suppose I should tell Dean and Seamus, so they know what they're rooming with?"  
Harry grinned. "I ... don't think they'll have a problem with it."  
  
***  
  
At lunch that day, Ron was most surprised to see Pigwidgeon fly up to him, a note tied to his leg.  
"Hallo, Pig; who's been using you as a messenger?" He untied the scroll, and in a tiny, painfully perfect, nearly feminine hand was written, I'll see you tonight, then, Davis?  
"Davis?" Harry asked, reading over his shoulder.  
Ron shrugged, and tried to keep from grinning. "No idea."  
  
*** 


	5. [4/8] — DESPERATE — in which there is no...

GHOSTS  
IV  
Desperate  
  
***  
  
"I hate you, you know," hands playing desperately with white-blond hair, not bothering to muffle his moans.  
"I know." Smirked, left a trail of kisses and soft nips down his lover's chest. "I'm not overly fond of you, either." Nimble fingers unbuttoned a pair of faded blue jeans, played with the zipper, danced over thin cotton underwear.  
"God that feels good ... Why do you do this, then?"  
Fingers playing now with the elastic waistband, almost tentatively snaking inside and right back out, lips and tounge seeking lips and tounge, fusing together for one desperate second before minds caught up with bodies and remembered just -who- they were kissing. And then thought, sod it all, and kept right on going.  
"Well," between moans and other murmured noises and another mouth keeping his silent, "it's certainly not for your money, Weasley."  
  
*** 


	6. [5/8] — CONFESSION II — in which the sto...

GHOSTS  
V  
Confession II  
  
***  
  
"Go home over Christmas."  
"Huh?" Ron started at his lover's voice; looked up from his Muggle Studies assignment.  
"Go home over Christmas. That was we can meet up ... we'll still be sneaking around, but we'll be sneaking around -less- ... and we can spend Christmas in Muggle London!"  
"Why Draco, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you liked me." Draco, who had been stretched out on the bed, curled up into a ball and put his head in Ron's lap, reminding Ron for all the world of a kitten. "Last time I checked, though, you were still using me for sex. Unless of course you're planning to fuck me senseless in the streets of London for everyone to see, which I would not totally put past you." His tone was half-joking, but he was surprised at just how bitter his words came out.  
Draco sighed. "I —" he faltered. "I'm not supposed to care about you, you know."  
"But you do?"  
"...Yeah."  
"And I have no business lov- I mean, caring for a cold-hearted bastard, but..."  
"Ron? You said 'loving.'"  
"No I didn't."  
"Yes you did."  
"No I didn't!"  
"...I love you too."  
There was silence for a long time, until someone spoke, had to speak, had to break the tension hanging in the air, hanging over their heads, ready to drop....  
"Well. This changes things, doesn't it?"  
"Oh yes. This changes things in a big way. I -can't- love you, you realize that? It's not just that you're a guy; I think my parents think I'm gay anyway, but —"  
"But I'm a Weasley," Ron finished for him. "I'm not good enough for you. I'm too poor, my family's too strange — lower than mudbloods, almost," he said flatly.  
"No!" Draco cried, then his voiced dropped down to nearly a whisper. "I mean — yes. But I don't think so. I -love- you, Ron."  
Not for the first time, Ron marveled at how different Draco was when they were alone. The heartless façade dropped, and behind it was a boy, starved for affection and too old for his age. Someone completely different. Someone ... lovable.  
Draco sat up, not to pull away as Ron had feared, but to wrap his arms around his lover and kiss him softly. "Don't be mad at me," he murmured. "I can't help being who I am. And I can't help what my parents believe."  
"But you believe it, too," but he wasn't so upset anymore; it was evident in the way he relaxed into Draco's arms.  
"Yeah." Draco looked faintly embarrassed. "I did. I still do, maybe. But you would, too, if you were raised like I was. Do you realize," his voice had grown steadily louder, and was now on the verge of becoming hysterical, "that if I was vulnerable, if I was -nice-, even, a halfway decent person, I'd be letting everyone down? I'm -Draco-Malfoy-, for God's sake! -Lucius-Malfoy-'s son! People were calling me evil before I could even talk, much less do the bidding of some dark lord! You might wish you'd been able to lead a normal life, with food in the cupboards and Sickles in your pockets, but I was never allowed to be -human-!" At that, he burst into tears, releasing all the pain, the anger, the sadness of seventeen years of near-demonic perfection, and Ron could only watch in amazment and try to kiss the tears away.  
  
*** 


	7. [6/8] — SECRETS — in which the ceiling s...

GHOSTS  
VI  
Secrets  
  
*  
this chapter sucks. sorry.  
  
***  
  
"Ron?"  
He blinked up at the ceiling, and tried to figure out why it was talking to him.  
"Ron?"  
Maybe it wasn't the ceiling. Maybe it was something else. The wall, maybe, or the floor, or...  
"Dammit, Ron!"  
He opened his eyes, and Harry was sitting on the end of his bed, looking more than a bit frustrated.  
"Huh? Harry? What?"  
"I need to talk to you."  
"What. Um. Time?" Speaking was proving quite difficult, and Ron was actually quite proud of his efforts, considering what time it turned out to be.  
"About three."  
"In the -morning-?"  
"In the morning."  
"What in the world could you possibly have to say to me at three in the morning?"  
"Where were you yesterday?"  
"Huh? I spent the whole day with you, Harry, outside of classes."  
"Yesterday at three in the morning?"  
Ron's eyes opened almost comically wide. "I ... I ... Wh-what d'you mean, Harry? I was right here, of coure. At three in the morning, where else would I be? I get tired. I'm tired now."  
"You weren't here. I know you weren't here because -I- wasn't here. I was leaving —"  
"To go meet Hermionie," Ron guessed.  
Harry blushed. "Yeah. But ... that's not the point. The point is, I was being extra-careful not to trip over your boots on the floor, because I've been doing that lately-"  
"Not my fault."  
"Right. Not your fault." He sighed. "And I realized they weren't there."  
"Who wasn't there?"  
"Your -boots-, Ron."  
"Oh. Boots. Right."  
"They weren't there, and I thought that was odd, so I checked to see if -you- were there ... and you weren't."  
"I was too, Harry. You must've been mistaken."  
"I'm not stupid. You weren't there, and it probably wasn't the first time, either. You've complained that your marks are slipping, and I -know- you're a good student, and you've been quieter lately, for you; you've even been nicer to -Malfoy-."  
"I have?"  
"Yeah."  
Ooops. That wasn't in the plan.  
"You're seeing someone, aren't you? Why didn't you -tell- me?"  
"You didn't tell me about you and Hermionie," Ron pointed out, all too eager to change the subject.  
"You knew."  
"But you didn't -tell- me."  
"I'm seeing Hermionie. There, I told you. Now it's your turn."  
"I'm not seeing anybody, I told you. Don't you believe me?"  
Harry turned and stared Ron in the eyes. "How can I believe you when you're lying to me? I -know- you, Ron, I -know- you. I can tell when you're lying. You're lying now."  
Ron averted his eyes, and after a few incredibly tense seconds muttered, "Draco."  
"D-draco?" Harry repeated, confused, and unwilling to believe what he'd just heard.  
"Draco," Ron repeated, louder and more firmly this time. "Draco Malfoy. I'm seeing Draco Malfoy. I have been, for some time, seeing and sleeping with Draco Malfoy. Harry ... Harry, I'm in love with him."  
  
*** 


	8. [7/8] — SNOWFALL — in which Ron gives bi...

GHOSTS  
VII  
Snowfall  
  
***  
  
"It's snowing," Ron whispered, taking in the white flurry with a childlike look of wonder on his face. "It never snows in London."  
"Friends with one of the biggest mysteries of the wizarding world, and you're impressed by snow?"  
Ron flinched. "Draco ... please. We're on holiday. Let's not talk about school, let's not talk about the wizarding world ... let's especially not talk about Harry."  
"Let's just not talk, hmmm?" Draco pulled Ron tight against him, kissing him softly, then more firmly as Ron relaxed in his grip.  
"In public, Draco?" Ron managed between kisses, "Whatever would your father think?"  
Draco shoved Ron up against a wall, ignoring the stares of passersby. "Let's -especially- not talk about my father." The kisses were rougher this time, bruising, angry.  
"Draco, Draco," soothingly, ducking out from under Draco's arm, "please. If you want to hurt me, could we do it in private? Don't worry," he assured a frightened looking old lady, grinning charmingly, "he's my boyfriend; all this is fine with me."  
The old lady's eyes grew even wider, and she scuttled off muttering under her breath. Draco looked after her, bursting into laughter the second she was out of sight. "That was brilliant, Ron, brilliant."  
And the snow was falling, and Draco was laughing; his -boyfriend- was laughing, and snow was falling in London, and snowflakes stood out on his red hair and on Draco's black velvet jacket and melted on the tips of their tounges and they melted into each other and it was a beautiful day and it was snowing in London.  
  
***  
  
He hadn't realized how cold it was until they got inside; the hotel must have been a thousand degrees warmer than the streets, and Draco shrugged it off and said he hoped this was alright and it was nicer than any place Ron had ever seen before.  
"It's beautiful," he said, and Draco laughed again, and Ron soaked it in; he loved to see Draco laughing, even if Draco was laughing at him.  
"It's a hotel."  
"It's a beautiful hotel, and I love you." He hadn't meant to say it, but then, sometimes he said things without meaning to.  
Draco grinned. "I love you, too. Just wait right here, okay, and I'll go get a room." He guestured for Ron to sit down in the plush sofa he was standing in front of, and Ron complied, rolling his eyes.  
"'Wait right here,' as if I'm going to destroy the hotel or something," but he sat and waited anyway, because the sofa was so soft, and he hadn't realized his feet hurt any more than he'd noticed the cold, but it was cold and they did hurt, and he sat down and closed his eyes and didn't realize he was drifting off until he felt Draco's lips on his forehead, heard Draco's voice murmuring to wake up, dammit, but not sounding angry at all.  
  
***  
  
"You taste good," Draco said suddenly, and Ron decided to take his word for it, seeing as he'd never nibbled on himself the way Draco was doing.  
"Er, thank you, I suppose."  
"You're quite welcome," perfectly poised, as if skin taste was a normal topic of conversation. And it might well be, Ron mused; he didn't know what they discussed at formal dinner parties.  
Which brought him back to the reason they were here in the first place, aside from the much sought-after central heating and the plush carpeting and the bed that could swallow you and you'd never notice (not to mention the swimming pool and twenty-seven premium cable channels).  
"Draco?" He propped himself up on one elbow and tugged at a lock of Draco's hair, bringing him up from an exploration of Ron's navel.  
"hmm?"  
"You brought me here to break up with me, didn't you?"  
At that Draco actually tumbled off the bed, although he naturally sat delicately right back on the edge of it, pretending nothing had happened. "Ron ... why would you say something like that?" He wouldn't meet his eyes.  
"Because we can't stay together, and you know it. You've said it yourself, time after time — you're a Malfoy. I'm a Weasly. Besides, you need to ... you know. Keep the family name going; continue the bloodline and all that. And no offence, but I don't think I'd make a very good mother for your children." He grinned slightly, knowing full well that Draco knew it was fake.  
Draco leaned over and brushed his lips against Ron's. "I think you'd make a wonderful mother." He sighed. "But really ... it wasn't my intention, but as long as you've gone and brought it up ... I ... I -do- love you, Ron, but...."  
"I know. You don't have to explain yourself."  
"So ... can we enjoy the holiday together, then? And then we'll go back to school, and go back to hating each other...."  
"And then we'll be finished, and we never have to see each other again."  
"But you'll know that I love you."  
"And you'll know that I love you," but it wasn't the same, and it could never be the same, and he wasn't looking at Draco, he was looking out the window, and it was a beautiful day and it was snowing in London.  
  
*** 


	9. [8/8] — FAIRYTALE — in which Prince Harr...

GHOSTS  
VIII  
Fairytale  
  
***  
  
"So. Um," Ron said nervously, running a hand through his hair. "How was your holiday?"  
"You didn't go home," Harry said flatly. "Fred and George came by — they were quite surprised not to find you here. I made them promise not to tell your mum, but don't blame me if you're in heaps of trouble for this." He looked up, falling just short of meeting Ron's eyes. "You could've owled, at least. Let someone know where you were. You had me and Hermione frantic."  
"I — I was in London. It snowed."  
"Charming," he said derisively, "Lovely. What were you doing in London?"  
Ron blushed, remembering just what he'd spent most of his holiday doing. "I was — er — with Draco."  
"Yeah. I figured." Harry got up and walked out of the room.  
"But — Harry —"  
He searched Hogwarts grounds all afternoon, but couldn't find him.  
  
***  
  
Dinner was, as usual, an elaborate affair, and Ron was overwhelmed by the opulance of the Christmas decorations as he entered the Great Hall; no matter how many times he saw it, it never failed to amaze him. Hesitantly, he headed to his usual spot next to Harry; he had arrived late in order to assure there would be no other vacancy. Sure enough, it was the only empty chair at the Gryffindor table.  
"Hey Harry, Hermione," he said cheerfully.  
Silence.  
"Er — Harry ..."  
"Why don't you go sit at the Slytherin table?" Harry suggested icily. "You're not wanted here."  
"I'm ... not wanted there. Either," he whispered, tears stinging his eyes.  
"Oh, I'm sure that Malfoy's approval will give you immunity from the rest of the house, even if they all still hate you."  
"But Harry ... that's — that's why I've been trying to find you.... We broke up, Harry. That's what I wanted to tell you before, but you left, and—"  
"I'll talk to you about it later," Harry cut him short, and Ron saw that Dumbledore was about to make a speech, and he sighed and was silent.  
  
***  
  
It was late, nearly midnight; Neville was asleep, Seamus and Dean were already in bed — the -same- bed, he had noted, with more than a twinge of jealousy — and Harry was nowhere to be found. With Hermione, probably.  
"Hey," Harry's voice cut through the darkness. Ron started.  
"God, Harry, give some warning will you."  
"Sorrry." Harry whipped off the invisibility cloak and grinned sheepishly at Ron, sitting cautiously on the end of his friend's bed. "Forget I'm wearing it, sometimes."  
"Um. It's alright."  
"So you and Draco ... broke up?"  
"It looks that way. Nothing personal, of course," he wondered if he sounded sarcastic; he was too tired to tell, really, "it's just that he's a -Malfoy- you know."  
"-He- dumped -you-?"  
Ron laughed at Harry's shocked tone. "What did you expect? I was — I'm nearly -infatuated- with him, Harry. And it really was a name thing, for the record; bad enough that the only heir to the Malfoy family fortune's gay, but ...."  
Harry shook his head. "Honestly, Ron, I don't think anyone considers you to be 'a Weasley' except yourself. You're -Ron-, that's all. You dwell on it too much."  
"Possible. Fact remain ...."  
"It's over?"  
"Quite."  
"I — I'm sorry," Harry said after a moment's hesitation. "I was terrible about the whole thing, and it meant so much to you, and —"  
"It's okay." Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he smiled. "I know you didn't mean anything by it. If I'd been in your place, after all, I'd've done the same thing."  
"Me and -Malfoy-?" Harry looked flabbergasted, and vaugely offended that such a thing could even be suggested. Ron laughed.  
"That wasn't -exactly- what I meant, but alright, if you'd like to think of it that way."  
"I suppose ..." Harry laughed, "I suppose it's all for the best, actually. Saved us all a lot of embarassment." Ron looked at him, confused. "I was — this is so ridiculous — but I was half-ready to go, I don't know, -rescue- you from him or something."  
"What, on a white horse, Prince Harry?" He smirked. "Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of saving myself, should I ever be in need of saving. You know," he teased, "if this was a fairytale, right about ... now, you'd realize you'd always been in love with me really, and —"  
"And on that note, I'll be leaving now!" With an entirely unnecessary flourish, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak over his shoulders and vanished.  
Ron lay back in his bed and smiled, sleep coming over him again. "Happily ever after, hmm? Maybe someday ...." 


	10. [9/8] — DISCLAIMER — in which Mike apolo...

GHOSTS  
xxi  
DISCLAIMER  
  
***  
  
Hi. Michael again. I hope you rather enjoyed your little trip — actually to be frank, I don't give a shit, but Laine's probably got an electric cattle prod or something she'd stab me to death with if I don't compliment her story.  
  
Laine: nah. it'd hurt the computer.  
  
...Right. I feel loved. Anyway. This is supposed to be a general disclaimer, so I guess I better start ... er ... disclaiming.  
  
Ron Weasley (and the rest of his family), Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Dean and Seamus whose last names I don't know, and generally the whole cast are © J.K. Rowling, who's, y'know, a goddess and all. Or something.  
London doesn't belong to Laine, either, although I doubt it's really *copyright* anyone. New York also doesn't belong to her, which seems irrelevant except that it was the city she was *in* while writing chapter seven —  
  
Laine: the guggenheim museum, to be exact. a frickin' five-hour bus ride to spend three hours sitting in an amazing museum looking at a painting that resembled bathroom tiles and discussing harry potter. for three hours. how sick is -that-? shout out to lauren, coz she was there, and the painting resembled -her- bathroom in particular.  
  
Riiight. Anyway. So London is more or less based on New York, which doesn't belong to Laine. Okay. Got it.  
Other things that don't belong to Laine include snow, midnight, teen angst, owls, and sex. Definitely not sex. And I think I'm just going to shut up now before she kills me.  
  
So as previously stated ... feel free to submit questions/comments/etc to Laine at vaineglorie@aol.com, and I will probably e-mail you back. See y'all.  
  
  
-Mike 


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